


those who favor fire

by steelplatedhearts



Series: War Paint and Cyanide Pills [9]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Blood, Crossover, Riots, and don't care about you, and we are reminded that Shosanna and Silva are actually really evil, in which everyone dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many, many paths people can take at the end of their stories. These are just two possibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	those who favor fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is chronologically the last one in the series, but let's be real: chronology has been shot all to hell at this point.  
> (I'm actually like 100% over this one, at this point i'm just posting it so i don't have to think about it anymore.

They have a story, technically, but to say there’s one beginning, one middle, and one end—that would do them a disservice. There are many places they could have began, many bits that can be seen as the middle, and—most importantly—a multitude of different ways that their story could end.

One ending goes like this:

*   *   *   *   *

The world ends on a Monday. Shosanna is out hunting, running down the newest crop of people they’ve brought to the island. It’s soothing for her—they make such pretty noises with knives in their throats.

She returns to the house, admiring the blood spatters that make a stark contrast on her pale hand. “Raoul,” she sings out, waltzing through the door, “we’re out of prey, darling.”

He does not answer her, does not even move, and Shosanna draws to a halt, concerned.

“How would you like to be queen of the world, _ratita_?” he says, not taking his eyes off the computer screen in front of him.

She approaches him cautiously, like a mouse approaching a wounded tiger. “I think the world might object.”

“Nonsense,” he says. “The world should be so lucky to have you for a queen.”

She peeks a look at the screen, and her suspicions are confirmed. One window has Agent 007’s obituary. Another has footage of a building exploding, lighting up the night. A third has Bond’s body, looking very small and broken.

“They have nothing for us now, _ratita_ ,” Raoul says. “No James, no real way of preventing us from a delightful spree.”

“So this is it, then,” she says.

“I believe it is.”

He crashes the New York Stock Exchange that night, simply because he can.

*   *   *   *   *

Q finally stumbles into his flat at about 1:30. He’s got to be back in five hours, and he should probably try to sleep, but he’s irritated and antsy and he just wants a fucking drink.

Bond is dead, one hundred percent dead this time, and all hell has broken loose.

Someone crashed the American stock market, started a civil war in some tiny third-world country, and bankrupted China. All of this was blamed on MI6. He’s been putting out fires all day, and they keep setting themselves again, crackling back into life.

Vodka, he decides. Earl Grey with some vodka. Then maybe some old taped episodes of Strictly Come Dancing. It’ll switch off his brain for a bit, he thinks.

Shosanna’s in the kitchen, sitting on the countertops. He’s almost not surprised—it’s the only way this day could get any worse.

“Are you the reason for the international financial meltdown?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Technically it’s Raoul,” she says.

“Is he just throwing a hissy fit because Bond’s dead?” Q asks, blunt. He’s tired, so tired, and he doesn’t have the energy to figure out why she’s here or navigate a conversation with her.

“It’s a bit more than a hissy fit, _chérie_ ,” she says, and she looks almost apologetic. “It’s only going to get worse from here.”

Right. Because Bond’s dead, and his pet psychopaths are off the leash. “Do I want to know how bad?” he asks, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

“Very bad,” she says. “Many people are going to die.”

And suddenly, he knows exactly why she’s there.

“This is it, then,” he says, voice hollow.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” She’s only trying to protect him, in her own twisted way. “Make it quick.”

She curls her hands around his face, stroking her thumb over his cheekbone. “Of course.”

“Will it hurt?” he asks, and he’s proud of himself for keeping his voice calm and steady even as tears are falling down his face.

She kisses him lightly on the forehead. “Not a bit, darling.”

The last thing he thinks before she snaps his neck is: _it was always going to end like this._

She keeps her promise. It does not hurt.

*   *   *   *   *

It takes about two days for Silva to whip up a good, proper riot, but the wait is completely worth it.

The city is burning and people are raging in the streets, out for blood. Shosanna and Silva stalk through the cobbled roads, arm in arm, reveling in the destruction. Shosanna has to beat a few people off with her bat, and Silva has to slit some throats when people get too close, but for the most part, the mob swirls around them like a river moving around a rock. Riot police are out in full force, but it’s not their London anymore, it’s Silva and Dreyfus’s London, and it is beautiful.

Shosanna blows up Big Ben and laughs as it falls. Silva stares at her, at the firelight shining in her eyes, and kisses her.

She responds enthusiastically, and they stay there for a moment, struggling for balance. There’s blood when they break apart, and neither one can tell who drew it.

*   *   *   *   *

“You can’t be serious,” Eve says blankly, staring at Mallory. “I can’t—I don’t have the training—”

“You started the training before you took your desk job,” Mallory says. “The fact is that you’re technically the most advanced trainee at the moment.”

“I haven’t really _trained_ in years,” Eve protests.

“I’ve seen you at the shooting ranges. You’re more than competent. And we need every last person we can get out in the field. Have you seen it? It’s a goddamn warzone out there.” He smirks. “Besides, you don’t have a choice. The paperwork was finalized a half an hour ago.” He puts his hand out for her to shake. “Congratulations, 007.”

She stiffens her spine and swallows her objections. “Thank you, M.”

“Oh, by the way,” he says as she’s headed out the door, “could you head over to Q’s flat when you get the chance? He didn’t come in to work today.”

*   *   *   *   *

“Here you are, _ratita_ ,” Silva says, shark-like grin spreading across his face as he presents an ornate crown to her. “St. Edward’s crown. Used in coronations, I believe. Fit for a queen.”

Shosanna takes the crown and walks over to one of the dead guards lying on the floor. Dipping her finger in the pool of his blood, she smears red across the gems. “There,” she says, satisfied. “Now it’s a crown fit for _me._ ”

“Baptized in blood,” Silva says, staring at the droplet making its way down the front of the crown. “Yes, that’s much more fitting.”

So maybe they rule London, as much as you can rule chaos, and maybe they expand, spreading the riots farther and farther until they have the whole island in their grip, maybe even the whole world.

Or maybe they won’t make it that far. Maybe 007 will make it; maybe she’ll take them out with sniper fire from a burning cathedral, or organize the bombs that end their reign.

*   *   *   *   *

 

But that is not the only ending that they can have. Here’s another:

*   *   *   *   *

Gareth Mallory dies on a Thursday—heart attack. It’s very sudden, leaving the department discombobulated and off-kilter. Eve takes over day-to-day running of the department, keeping everything going smoothly. She’s secretly hoping that she’ll be tapped as Mallory’s replacement. She knows she’s competent enough; it’s just a question of the brass knowing it too.

They do not know. She’s passed over, ignored, and someone else is brought in.

She vaguely reminds Eve of M, in a way. She has that same severe look, that same sense of not tolerating anyone’s bullshit.

Her code name is still M, which is probably why Bond doesn’t fight her very much when she gives him the Silva and Dreyfus termination order.

“My predecessor may have allowed this nonsense,” she says, brushing her black hair off her shoulders, “but it’s gone on long enough. You are to eliminate them at your first possible chance.”

“That’s a really bad idea,” Q says, gripping his folders. “Look, we’ve run the numbers—”

M doesn’t even look at the numbers. “That’s an order, 007.”

Bond nods sharply. “Yes, ma’am.”

*   *   *   *   *

Bond shoots Silva through the head three weeks later. He’s on a mission in Russia, and Silva bounds up like it’s business as usual.

“Hello, James,” he purrs, smirk firmly in place. “How nice to see—”

He is dead before he hits the ground. Bond stands there for a moment, staring at his body in silence.

He then calls it in, walking away. He has a mission to finish.

*   *   *   *   *

“Are you worried?”

Bond takes a slow sip of his coffee, ignoring Q and Eve’s intent stares. “About what?”

“About _her_ ,” Q says, half whispering.

“You can call her Shosanna,” Bond says. “It’s okay, she’s not Voldemort.”

“Well, _are_ you worried?” Eve says, raising an eyebrow. “Because you really should be.”

Bond shrugs. “If she comes for me, she’ll come for me. There’s no stopping it.”

The alarms go off, shrieking for all to hear.

“Speak of the devil,” Bond says, and he almost sounds amused.

Shosanna rips through the door like it’s made of paper. She’s already covered in blood, lips curled up in a snarl. She beelines for Bond and knocks him on the floor, clawing and punching at his face, slamming his head into the ground. Eve attempts to help him, and gets thrown into a door for her troubles.

She slams him up against the wall, pinning him in place with a knife through his throat. A quick stab to the heart, and she’s gone.

She does not tell Q to eat a sandwich, a fact that resonates in his mind for a while after—most likely, he supposes, solely to give him something to focus on.

Bond bleeds out there on the wall before anyone can get him down and help him, and for a while, there’s a river of blood running through MI6.

When the dust settles, 25 people are dead, countless more are in the hospital, and the new M is missing.

Her body washes up on the shore of the Thames two and a half weeks later, identifiable only by dental records.

*   *   *   *   *

Shosanna Dreyfus is never heard from again. Sometimes Q thinks he can see her out of the corner of his eye, staring at him in a crowded tube, but he’s never sure if it’s actually her or if it’s just his imagination.

Sometimes he thinks of her promise to kill him and wonders if it still applies.

Then he thinks about whether or not he wants it to.

He has yet to come to a conclusion on that.

*   *   *   *   *

 

These are but a few endings. There are more, of course—there are always more. Endings where maybe Shosanna slips and cracks her head, or Silva dies of an aneurysm. Or maybe their island goes up in flames, or they cross the wrong crime boss.

But no matter how you slice it, their lives will end in violent death, because their lives were started in violent death. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, death to death.

But maybe it won’t always be that way. Maybe they’ll keep up their game of cat-and-mouse with MI6 for years to come, annoying Bond and terrorizing Q and amusing Eve. Maybe they’ll keep going until they’re old and grey, at which point they’ll retreat to their island and live in relative peace.

Maybe.

Most likely not.

But it is nice to think so.


End file.
